


In Medias Res

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, Estrangement, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Male-Female Friendship, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She goes up and up. Hand over hand. And there is a single moment of heaviness. A stutter of heartbeats (when there <em>are</em> heartbeats again) and she wants to sink through the rooftop. Because it's not that she isn't grateful. And furious. And incredulous. And <em>so grateful</em>. But these are the wrong blue eyes and she can't believe that it's not Castle." Beckett POV for Always (4 x 23)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Wing

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I love—so much—that Marlowe and Stana let Kate be _joyful_ in the end. Yes, there will be angst out the yin yang in the wake of all this. But she brings _none_ of it to Castle's doorstep. And I just love that. So I had to write a highly unoriginal little POV one shot. Title for this chapter inspired by this beautiful song by Hem, which has been reminding me of Kate's journey all season: .com/watch?v=QFQrH9w8VM4

We are standing on the rooftops

We are circling like sparrows

We are tiny, we are trembling,

Scared of everything

But the heart is still a red wing

Hem, "Red Wing"

* * *

She goes up and up. Hand over hand. And there is a single moment of heaviness. A stutter of heartbeats (when there _are_ heartbeats again) and she wants to sink through the rooftop. Because it's not that she isn't grateful. And furious. And incredulous. And _so grateful_. But these are the wrong blue eyes and she can't believe that it's not Castle.

In the moment, the weight seems right. Gravity is the metaphor people use. They talk about downward motion. Being anchored in profound moments. It _is_ a profound moment, right?

But she is light. Easy. Rising. Breaking the surface into light and nothing can touch her.

* * *

Not quite nothing.

She is acutely aware of Esposito. Defiant. At her back. She wants to turn away from Gates ( _Gates and all her fury could not matter less right now_ ) and press his hand. Thank him. Explain to him. Show him that everything is light. Up and up.

She snags for a moment on the solidity of her desk. Tangled up in her things. Objects in her hands. The transfer from surface to surface. This is serious. Monumental. Shouldn't she be sorrier? Worried? Undone by her life—her _life_ —staring back at her from the gaping mouth of an impersonal black duffel bag.

She pushes herself up now. She rises. Bobs in place. Uncertainty tugs at her for the first time. Then she sees his chair. Empty. Up she goes again. Like her strings have been snipped. She bumps the bag with her thigh. That's not her life in there. She is more.

* * *

The elevator carries her away. Carries her toward. Carries her down. But only literally. Alone, she takes a moment. A breath. Lets it go and savors the ease.

Reality nibbles at the edges of her mind. Tells her this is huge. Wrong. A mess. But she is out the door, on the street, smiling— _smiling_ —into the rain.

It occurs to her that this is exactly how Castle would have written this scene. An event. Rain pressing on her. Pulling at her clothes, her hair. Not sharp needles that prick and then relent. Instead, a deluge.

The fog clings to the buildings. Lamp posts rise up and disappear. Cars hulking in the grey. She can barely see the sidewalk, but her feet are sure on the pavement. She steps off the curb, calf deep in a current that tugs at her on its way underground.

She makes her way across the street. A speeding car fans water over her back. She turns and gives the puzzled driver a smile and a wave. She steps up on to the opposite curb. It's part of the pattern. She is part of the pattern with her heart beating strong and steady, eagerness dancing in her belly. But first there are pieces to place. A pilgrimage to everywhere he is not.

The swings are still when she arrives. The chains straining toward the earth, immobilized by the thick blanket of fog. She sits. His swing suddenly stirs in answer. Quirks like a smile.

_Just a minute_ , she says aloud, _This is . . . give me a minute._ She rests her forehead against the chain and whispers, _Soon_.

She wraps one hand, then the other around the gunmetal links and tips back. Her arms snap straight and her hair slides off her collar. Dangling. She closes her eyes and enjoys the sensation of rain cascading over her forehead. Cheekbones. The tip of her chin.

She lifts her feet. Arches her back. Slow and tentative at first. Then her legs are working. Pumping furiously. Her elbows bend. She drapes her chest along her thighs. Strains forward, grinning, and falls back again.

The swing climbs higher and higher. Something bubbles up from deep within her. A sob. An exclamation. A fierce, _relieved_ shout. She flings her arms wide and launches herself. Lands awkwardly, arms pinwheeling, mud sucking at her boots. She laughs. Pulls one foot free, then the other, shaking off clods of dirt and grass.

She turns. Points herself toward him and runs. She is an arrow parting the rain.

* * *

She hunches over her phone as she moves. Squints through the rain. She can't believe how much time has passed. How little.

She's close. She'd been so _intent_ she hadn't realized how close.

Sudden, electrifying fear pierces her. She stumbles. Rights herself. Smooths her hands up the front of her jacket. Teases it up and up. Snips its string and lets it fly. Raises her chin as if to watch it go.

And it _is_ gone, but it leaves something behind. Solemnity. A warm, golden tone sounding underneath the giddy joy that's been driving her. Recognition. A duty to do this _right._

She spies a mailbox. Shoves the phone under the shelter of its overhang and brushes off the rain with her thumb. His picture fills the screen. Her knees nearly buckle with want. She dials.

Two and a half rings. A click as he declines the call. She bites her lip. Tears prick her eyelids, but she's laughing, too. She _hates_ his voicemail message. Always has. It's all public persona. The Playboy that was. But his voice. His _voice_. That, she loves.

It leads her in. Into the lobby. Past the doorman. She brushes by the desk, spins to wave off his concern with a smile, walking backward.

She punches the elevator button. Changes her mind. Dashes for the stairs and takes them two at a time. Up and up.

* * *

She knocks. Tries to keep still. But it's all suddenly so intense. Like everything in her is coming to the surface, fizzing, burning, dancing across her skin, to reach through the door. For him.

He opens it and she comes _so close_ to laughing. He is stunned. Absolutely.

That stills her. He never believed she'd come for him. Sorrow thrums through her. Just an instant. It's no match for the joy. Not her sorrow and not his. She'll show him. Tuck him by her side and take him with her. Up and up.

But suddenly she doesn't know how to start.

He does, of course, "Beckett. What do you want?"

The future settles on her shoulders. As usual, he's left her the perfect opening, "You."

She steps up. In. Toward. He retreats and she feels a flare of annoyance. She would. This is them, after all.

She lays her hands on him, her lips against his, and wills him to feel what she feels. Peace. Joy. Certainty.

Grief. Regret. Determination. Her hands on his shoulders. His neck. His cheek. She breathes out her apology again and again and again.

He grabs her arms, still fighting. That's ok. She's prepared to work for this. She raises her eyes to his and shows him.

He's wary. Angry even. But he can't resist. Half responds to her kiss even as he pries her away, "What happened?"

It threatens again. The giddy twist of something awful that she felt when he didn't pick up the phone.

What happened? How can she possibly answer that? The answer falls from her lips, sudden and complete: "He got away. I didn't care. I almost died. And all I could think about was you. I just want you."

It's so simple after all.

For a moment anyway. Then things become very complicated. Her ribs rise under his fingers. They won't let go one breath to take another. Her knees give way, but still she's rising. Pressing on his arms, scaling his body.

He's frantic. She takes his desperation from him. Breathes it out. Smiles against him and gives him back certainty. Calm.

With sudden purpose, his drops his head. Ducks under her chin and lets out a shuddering breath against her sternum. Sorrow rings out again. A single note. She waits for it to fade away, then coaxes his head upward. Nods as his fingers hover, uncertain.

He tugs at her, releases the button, his face a mixture of stubborn defiance and awe. Raises his fingers—their fingers—to the pale arc between her breasts. He dives into the next kiss and she feels _something_ fall away.

He slows. Makes an effort. She thinks that he might be contemplating something gentlemanly. Grown up. Sensible. She does laugh then. Laughs and smiles wide. Takes his hand.

Leads them both way from every other possible ending.

  



	2. Certain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He splits himself in two. Locks away the part that is collapsing. Stands ready to ignore the cries, the protests. The insistence that he make her _listen_. They don't come.
> 
> "This is, um, over," the other piece of him doesn't even object to the recycled dialogue. It seems that they're both done leaving things open ended. He tests the waters. Adds, "I'm done."
> 
> It rings out between them. Falls to the ground. Comes to rest with a hollow echo and feels true.
> 
> Castle POV on Always (4 x 23)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wrote these separately, though this shortly after "Red Wing." I decided to post them as a single story here.

 

* * *

 

You are certain

This is written

In the hard right angles of your jaw

But I remember

Your hopeless fingers

Pressing white against the door

Against the letters of my name

Against the wall

* * *

 

He splits himself in two. Locks away the part that is collapsing. Stands ready to ignore the cries, the protests. The insistence that he make her _listen_. They don't come.

"This is, um, over," the other piece of him doesn't even object to the recycled dialogue. It seems that they're both done leaving things open ended. He tests the waters. Adds, "I'm done."

It rings out between them. Falls to the ground. Comes to rest with a hollow echo and feels true.

He goes.

* * *

 

The cheap gold polyester spills over his fingers, gaudy against the sober black pleats of the graduation gown. He idly catalogs the metaphor. Files it away with sense memories of the aftermath: The solidity of the door under his hand as he pulled it closed behind him, the creak of the descending elevator, the lonely, disjointed rhythm of one set of footsteps moving away in the heavy fog.

He gathers it all close—the details and clichés. He knows he'll have to write the ending eventually. Tells himself—the locked away part of himself that is still and silent and _exhausted_ —that he'll _want_ to write it. Someday. When the pain is less and the cracks don't show any more.

He turns at her soft voice. Smiles because he ought to and then because he means it. Because she is lovely and open and _so young_ , even in her anxious sorrow. Because her hair, fine red-gold silk against the black of his jacket, reminds him that there are other stories he will write. That he is writing. He tucks away the moment.

"Write about that," presses his lips against the crown of her head, "That feels true."

And it does.

* * *

 

He shakes himself and wonders how long he's been standing there. Looks down and sighs at the extra buttonhole between his fingers. He undoes the buttons and starts over a third time.

He concentrates on the fabric and tries to ignore the fact that the shirt is her favorite. That he'd pulled it from the back of the closet two days ago. Imagined the quirk of her eyebrow, her small smile of approval when he picked her up. Maybe even imagined her fingers, stark and pale against the deep red as he took her hand in the darkness of the movie theatre.

He shakes himself again. Sets his jaw and starts to work on the tie. Settles on something clumsy that will have to do. One cufflink skitters from between his fingers. he brings his palm down on it, harder than he meant to, to keep it from rolling off the dresser. Tells himself he's not shaking.

He pulls on the jacket and thinks of it as armor. Proof against memory and loss.

He catches a glimpse of the clock out of the corner of his eye. Turns and moves quickly through the study. He's missing time. Grateful that it passes without him.

The phone startles him. The locked away part of him pushes hard against his chest and wants to hope. He sets his teeth and flicks off the ringer.

His mother finds him there, staring at the darkened screen. She wordlessly eases the phone from his fingers and drops it in his pocket. Shakes her head gently and sets to work on the mess he's made of his tie.

She finishes and steps back to admire her handiwork. He stills her hand against his shoulder. They stand together a moment. Wordless.

* * *

 

He wonders how many different ways a heart can break. He watches as something new settles over his daughter. Her voice breaks. Drops. Rises again on a sweet note of possibility. Dives to catch the thrill of the unknown.

He listens. Saves the words for later, when has some place to hold them. For now, he hears her voice and knows: She is his. Better. Kinder. Wiser. But his.

She raises her wrist and flicks her fingers in the barest of waves.

The two parts of him rush toward one another and he sees her tiny pink fingers straining to curl around his thumb. An instinct to cling to him fully formed before her eyes were even open. Bigger now and a little dirty, rambling over the expanse of his palm as she acts out a story. A young woman's fingers, teasing and gentle over his shoulder. Coaxing. As if she ever needed to coax.

His face lights up and he slams his hands together. His mother's clear, "Brava!" rises above the crowd.

He smiles and smiles up at his daughter. So proud and utterly bereft.

* * *

 

She's worried. He hears it in her final "I love you," and he burns with shame. He wants to tell her that it's gone. The urge to call up a careless, adamant smile and run. Dig his toes in and push off the edge. Fall through the uncomplicated night and land wherever he might.

He wants to tell her he thinks _that's_ over for good and all, even if it's so recent he can still taste the sad, stale defeat. Wants to tell her that he's anchored now. And anyway there's no running from this ending.

He settles for saying it back, "I love you, too."

He sinks a promise into every word. To be here, even though she's going.

He sets down the phone. Settles her tassel into its place of honor.

The phone rings again and he sighs, not sure he can convince her all over again that he's fine. He's nothing like fine.

He turns the phone over and the world stops. He never dreamed she'd call. Not even the part of him that's locked away _ever_ dreamed she'd take one step back toward him. Not really.

His thumb hovers over the button. Because he hurts. He _hurts_ and he doesn't think he can make it through the next minute without something of her. Even her dying breath.

His fingers twitch at the thought, silencing the ringer. It's all too literal. All too _familiar_. Life rushing out of her. Rushing out of him.

Her face disappears. Reappears on the larger screen. He avoids it. Focuses on the words. Ruthlessly casts aside the idea that there is anything here to save. One gesture. Another. And the screen goes dark.

* * *

 

He thinks the knock comes right away, but he can't be sure. Missing time again, and he's worried it's Alexis. Hates the thought that he couldn't even give her one night of not having to be the grown up.

He tries on something like a smile and opens the door.

He is a complete blank, barely registering the most basic facts of the matter. The part of him that's locked away steps in. Takes notice.

That Kate is on his doorstep. That soaking wet or not, she's lit up like the city on a clear, cold night. That the uncertain almost-smile on her face reaches her eyes. That she's washed clean. A woman he's never seen before.

That none of it matters.

"Beckett. What do you want?"

Is there even a heartbeat before she replies?

He doesn't think so.

"You," the syllable is still on her lips when she catches him and there's something a little fierce. A little demanding. More than a little _annoyed_ in that first kiss.

He falls into the confusion of cool skin and warm breath. Her voice is hypnotic, "I'm so sorry, Castle. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

She tips her chin up. Her lips find his again. A shock runs through him. Then stillness. And suddenly his mind is alive with words. The two pieces of him slam together. He kisses her back. Pushes her away. Steels himself and meets her eyes.

And nothing could have prepared him for that. For the fact of her certain, unwavering gaze. For the light—unclouded and sure—in her eyes.

"What happened?"

The light goes. Just for an instant. But it's enough and his heart stutters and cracks a little more.

And her words take his breath away, "He got away. I didn't care. I almost died. And all I could think about was you. I just want you."

He lights up white inside. It feels true. _It feels true_.

But he wants it so badly and he's _so_ afraid.

Desperation wins and he's crushing her against the door. Catching her weight while he learns all the places that bend her knees and soften spine. Lips and teeth together at her ear, one gasp after another that feels through his fingers on her ribs. His grief tells him it can't last.

He moves against her. Frantic.

She breathes a soft " _Ah"_ against his neck. Drags her fingers slowly, _slowly_ across his shoulder, kneads the muscles of his neck and kisses him with purpose.

He follows. Sure and languid now. The heel of his hand presses against her collarbone. He feels her heart. Strong. Racing. Alive. He breaks the kiss. Bites back a prayer as his lips find the skin where the fabric parts. Rough, smooth, and warm under his breath.

She ducks her head and urges him upward. _Oh_. He's sorry. He didn't mean . . . He just. But she catches his eye and there's nothing that needs words. She nods permission and he tugs open the top button.

She looks at him. Waits a moment to be sure he's looking, too, and brings his fingers, together with her own, to rest over the scar. A nightmare. A miracle. He has to kiss her again. Savor the way every part of her meets every part of him and he wants more. All of it. Now.

He thinks she does, too. Knows she does when she breathes her wordless secrets against him.

_But isn't this . . . shouldn't they? It's probably a good idea . . ._

She laughs up at him and he is lost.

She takes his hand.

He follows.

  



End file.
